Chapter Nine
I know this sounds ridiculous, but writing a book can bring to mind the pain of childbirth.
Not that I’ve ever birthed a child, which is why I feel ridiculous, making the comparison. But I can’t help it. As I sit at my desk, staring at the blinking cursor, which somehow gives the impression it’s judging me, I wish I had an excuse to let out a primal scream of agony.
It’s not exactly writer’s block, but it might as well be.
In the two days since my first date with Blake, I’ve been an incredibly productive person.
My apartment is cleaner than it’s been in forever.
I rearranged the books on the shelves that line my living room, something I do from time to time when I decide I’d rather have them grouped by color or by title or by author.
I watched a bunch of YouTube videos on deep cleaning, like using a lemon half-covered in kosher salt to scrub away the hard-water stains on my kitchen sink, and then went to work.
I even emptied the fridge and wiped down the shelves.
In other words, I’ve gotten no actual work done, but at least the place smells like lemon. It’s a small consolation, but I’ll take whatever I can get right now.
If only I knew how to start things off. How does my billionaire boss know the heroine?
In what capacity does she work for him? My ceiling holds no more answers than it did this morning or yesterday, yet I’m staring at it again.
I can’t make their relationship mirror the one between Blake and me. I need to fictionalize it.
An assistant? That’s a popular one. Yes, she’s the boss’s assistant. Her name is Phoebe for right now since Matt’s dog tends to bark and run around just when I’m deepest in thought. It’s like she knows I’m trying to concentrate and wants to mess with me.
She’s succeeding.
How do things take a turn between Phoebe and her boss? I try going through a bunch of possible scenarios before wondering if I should keep it simple and make it reality adjacent, if not exactly the same as to how we met up in reality. They’re going to a conference together. Simple enough.
But then what?
When my phone buzzes with a new text, I practically jump on it. Anything to avoid the pain of trying to figure out the details.
So? How’s the writing going? Hayley asks with a bunch of smiley faces and prayer hands.
I guess that means she’s excited for me but also praying I don’t fling my laptop out the window, quickly followed by myself.
It’s not, I have to admit with sad faces and chocolate bars, indicating just how much candy I’ve consumed over the last couple of days.
While I normally try to eat healthy food and I’m still sticking to my daily yoga practice, stress tends to make me crave chocolate. I don’t know how to do this. What even is writing? What are words? Maybe I need a new career.
You know who you remind me of? she asks.
Who? I ask, curious.
Yourself, she replies. Every time you hit a snag in whatever you’re working on, you start questioning every decision you’ve ever made in your entire life, and I have to remind you what a fabulous writer you are and how you’ll work your way through this problem the way you work through every problem.
She’s right, and I hate it. I always get all self-doubtful when the work goes slowly.
But this isn’t slow. This is stagnant. This is wondering when things are supposed to heat up between my hero and heroine—and how. After all, things between Blake and me haven’t heated up yet, and I’m not sure when they will.
Or if they will.
He hasn’t been in touch with me since Tuesday night.
A chaste kiss on the cheek was how he left things on dropping me off. “I’ll think up something big for us to do next time,” he promised with a cryptic smile before heading back out to the car.
Only there was no indication of when next time would be.
He’s a busy man. I have to keep that in mind. Trying to steal time with him will be like … well, trying to steal time. Whenever he has a break in his schedule, he might be able to devote some of that time to me. Or he might not.
My imagination is going to have to fill in the blanks.
I crack my knuckles and decide to write. It doesn’t have to be great. It doesn’t even have to be good. But I have to get words down regardless.
Bubbles tickled her nose when she raised the flute to her lips. “This champagne is delicious,” Phoebe offered after taking a sip.
“Do you drink a lot of champagne as a rule?” Bryan asked.
Yes, Bryan’s a good name to start off with, though I almost never stick to the first name I choose. Big Boss Bryan. Maybe that’s what Phoebe calls him when she talks about him with her best friend. Hmm …
Phoebe had the sense he was teasing and didn’t know how to react. “Whenever I can,” she quipped with a little smile, tossing her hair over one shoulder.
See? I got a hair toss in there.
Yes, yes, the scene is starting to come together. I see them sharing dinner in his suite after the conference has wrapped up for the day. Oh! Maybe it’s a weekend-long event, and they explore the city together—or rather, he shows it to her because, obviously, he’s been there. He’s been everywhere.
If only I knew how things would go between Blake and me, I might have more confidence in this.
Bryan’s firm, full mouth spread in a slow smile. “Maybe I’ll teach you the finer points of champagne, so you’ll know better what to order the next time you have the opportunity,” he suggested. “It’s the least I can do since you do so much for me.”
She knew he was joking. That he didn’t expect her to order champagne. After all, he paid her salary. If anybody knew how far below the champagne-and-caviar line she fell, it was her boss. Sure, he was generous but not that generous.
“Yes, I’m sure they have an excellent selection at the bodega down the street from my apartment,” she replied smoothly, smiling all the time.
That got him. His smug attitude popped like a balloon once he knew she was on to his little game. The sense that she’d won a small victory gave her confidence. He wasn’t the only one who could play.
He recovered quickly, pulling another tool from his legendary arsenal. “A woman as beautiful as you? As smart and witty? You should have men falling at your feet, begging to show you the world.”
Yes, there was that charm she’d heard so much about, having never seen proof of it before now, except while watching him sweet-talk a client or prospect.
“If I said yes to one of those men, who would pick up your dry cleaning and keep your appointments straight?” she asked with a slight shrug. “I’d hate to see you show up late for a big meeting, wearing a dirty suit.”
“You think I’m completely lost without you?
Is that it?” Now, his smile was wide. He was genuinely, sincerely amused by her.
Not by the word games he wanted to play, not by the thought of making her squirm after lavishing compliments on her.
“What if I showed you how capable I am? What if I’m the one to show you a thing or two this weekend? ”
I sit back with a sigh, nodding. And how would Phoebe react to that? How did I react when Blake suggested he show me how people in his world lived? I pretty much almost fell out of my chair. How would Phoebe feel though? The stakes are higher for her. She works closely with this dude.
Only how do things finally heat up? And what is it that’s keeping them apart?
Does he think she’s a corporate spy? Or does he get wind of a counteroffer made to her at the conference by a competitor?
Somebody who wants to steal Bryan’s top asset—his beautiful, brainy assistant—so they can undermine him while learning all his secrets?
What is this, a spy thriller? It’s supposed to be a romance. I know I need to take more time to read up on what’s popular right now, so I can have a sense of how to structure this, but I’ve been too busy deep-cleaning my bathroom grout with baking soda and vinegar.
Maybe I should’ve chosen another profession. Writing is like tearing my heart out and placing it on the page for all the world to see.
My notes from my date with Blake, scribbled down after the fact and barely legible, don’t help much. Nor do the notes I scrawled after the first time we met, which I wrote with my feet up on my desk and ice packs on both knees.
Because no matter how deep I dive into the characters and their feelings and the way my hero makes the heroine’s panties melt with just a single glance, one hurdle remains—the sex. I have to write sexy times for them while all I’ve gotten from Blake is a kiss on the cheek.
I grab my phone and fire off a quick text to Hayley. What do you think about me watching porn for research purposes? Maybe bondage? Or an orgy?
The last thing I expect is an almost-immediate reply. I think you should be careful about texting me things like that during work hours since I was just showing my boss something on my phone when your message came through.
I bury my face in my hands and wonder if it’s possible to literally drop dead of embarrassment. Sorry, sorry. Please tell him I’m sorry too.
She doesn’t get back to me this time. I can’t imagine why …
Still, porn is not a bad idea. I have to get new ideas going.
I have to familiarize myself with various kinks and positions.
What if Big Boss Bryan has a kink he only feels comfortable revealing to Phoebe since she’s that special woman with the vagina powerful enough to heal him?
Sure, and he’s such a control freak, so it could be something to do with dominating.
“Note to self,” I mutter as I type into my web browser’s search bar, “clear your search history.” Not that it matters. I’ve done research on so many strange, offbeat things over the years that I’d be surprised if I wasn’t on an FBI watch list by now.
That’s another thing most authors probably have in common. If we ever banded together during an apocalypse, we’d survive based on all our shared bits of random knowledge.
Where to start? “Domination,” I murmur as I type the word and am instantly assaulted by dozens and dozens of thumbnails leading to one video after another.
Right away, I can tell this isn’t for me since some of these women look like they’re in serious pain.
“No way is that a turn-on,” I whisper, horrified at the sight of a woman’s breasts bound in leather straps until her flesh is purple.
But it must be hot for some people, right? Men, I guess, or women into pain and humiliation. I don’t know that this is the audience I’m writing for. I’d better come up with a different search term.
“Handcuffs,” I suggest next.
And voilà, all the handcuffs a girl could want. Fuzzy, leather, iron shackles. A girl with her ankles cuffed too, and the chains connecting each cuff is then connected by a third chain.
Hmm. This strikes me more as erotica, and I’m not writing that.
What the heck am I writing then?
I click on one video that looks to be at least good quality.
There’s not that homemade vibe about it.
In one thumbnail, for instance, there are baby toys off in a corner and a laundry basket full of onesies.
Actual onesies, not adult-sized. It seems viewers aren’t too discerning when it comes to how their smut is produced.
“Oh, yeah!” the girl screams within moments of the video starting up, and I almost have a heart attack because I forgot the sound was even on, much less turned up so high. “Fuck me, Daddy!”
“Shh!” I hiss, horrified, fumbling for the volume control. Only I manage to knock the laptop off my desk, sending it crashing to the floor. It stays in one piece, and the video keeps playing. I almost wish I’d broken it.
“Punish my ass!” she shrieks just before I hit the mute button, leaving the handcuffed girl screaming silently while the man in question does indeed punish her ass.
I’m frozen, eyes bulging, lips pressed together, and staring at the wall between my office and Matt’s bedroom.
If there is any good in the world, if there is a chance of a benevolent higher power existing somewhere in the universe, he’s not listening.
He’s somewhere else. In his living room or out for a walk with the dog.
To my growing horror, I’m pretty sure there’s soft laughter coming from the other side of that wall. I could be imagining it, but I don’t think so.